


Can't You Feel Me Longing?

by embroiderama



Category: American Actor RPF, The Losers (2010) RPF
Genre: Character of Color, F/M, Het, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-06
Updated: 2010-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-07 02:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embroiderama/pseuds/embroiderama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It gets hot in Puerto Rico. (Set during filming of <i>The Losers</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't You Feel Me Longing?

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the trailer to _The Losers_. Some details were drawn from [this article](http://www.topnews.in/star-trek-s-zoe-saldana-loves-wear-men-s-undies-2155778%22). Title from Poe's "Hey Pretty."

She's dancing with her stunt double. They're at a bar not far from the lot they've been shooting on, not the best part of town, but the rum flows strong in the syrupy sweet fountain Cokes, and nobody's paying any mind to the Hollywood crowd. Jeff likes the way the padded seat turns warm under his ass, and he's not smoking but he has a low buzz going anyway, the good tired of a productive day, the drink in his hand, the smoke filling the air around him.

And Zoe's on the little square of a dance floor, dancing inches away from her stunt double. Two pairs of long, lithe legs moving their feet in time; two sets of arms with strong shoulders and knobby elbows moving delicate-fingered hands through the air. Two heads with long, nut-brown hair swaying to the rhythm, and Jeff thinks that it's better he's not high. Even sober, if he lets his eyes fuzz out the women start to look like some kind of alien flower, beautiful and just a little threatening.

Jeff shakes his head, banishing the image, and walks over to the bar to order himself a straight Coke. In his peripheral vision, he watches the women dance, the complicated shapes their bodies make together. Jeff figures he has a few good talents. He can put together a piece of furniture that won't go to pieces the first time somebody tries to use it. He can paint, a little. He's starting to really believe he can act. But dancing? Jeff tries to avoid humiliating himself by keeping away from the dance floor.

The song ends, and the women laugh into each other's shoulders before turning around to accept the whistles and scattered applause from their audience of cast and crew members. The doppelganger illusion ends there, the stunt woman's face blunt and plain where Zoe's is sharp and stunning. Still, they're both beautiful, the low lights in the bar turning the sweat-sheen on their skin into a glow. Zoe shakes her hair back from her forehead, wipes her hands over her face, and then she catches Jeff looking. She smiles, not a red carpet smile, something a little bit quiet, a little bit dirty, and she swivels her hips to the new song. It's just for Jeff, for all that they're far from alone, and Jeff feels his cheeks flush, looks away.

He isn't sure how this woman ten years younger than him, ten years plus, can twist him up inside with nothing more than a look, a move, a touch of her hand against his arm as they work on blocking for a scene. He's been thinking about her for days, feeling her touch in the sweat-damp sheets against his chest when he wakes up in the middle of the night. He looks back up at her, and she's walking closer, the hem of her skirt bouncing against her thighs, casting moving shadows on her skin, and he can't look away.

When she's in front of him, she wraps her hand around his drink and pulls it closer without breaking Jeff's grip then ducks her head, sniffs the contents of the glass before taking the straw in her mouth and drinking deep. As she drains the glass, Jeff lets her take it, moves his hand to push back the damp tendril of hair hanging in front of her ear. She plucks the straw out of the drink and tips her head back to get the last traces of liquid surrounding the ice.

"You want another one of those?"

"I'm thinking about getting out of here." She tilts her eyes up at him, long lashes fanning above warm brown eyes. "Going back to the hotel."

Jeff reaches out to pluck an ice cube out of the glass in her hand, pops it in his mouth and lets the cold fight back the heat rising inside of him. "I could be on board with that."

"I'll grab one of the drivers." Zoe walks off to get one of the studio drivers, the only guys with the keys to drive them back to the hotel.

In the car, they don't talk or touch. They let the windows down, and the air rushing through the vehicle feels like heaven in Jeff's hair. He watches the long ends of Zoe's hair brush against her face, her chest. When he looks down, he notices that her shoes are thick-soled slides, solid and comfortable-looking and utterly at odds with the spike-heeled boots and pumps her character wears, the delicate strappy sandals women usually wear to go dancing. From the look of the soles in the flashing streetlights, he thinks they might be Doc Martens, and he approves the fuck out of that.

Jeff doesn't mind following her lead, keeping the silence, and they walk into the hotel lobby and step into an empty elevator. She leans back against the wall and crosses one ankle over the other, sweeping her gaze up Jeff's body to his face.

"So, I'm thinking you make me feel good and I return the favor."

Jeff steps close, putting himself in her space, close enough that he can smell the traces of spicy perfume radiating up from her throat, her chest. "What kind of favors are we talking about here, sweetheart?"

Her shoulders shift as she arches one delicate eyebrow. "You don't get to call me sweetheart." She smiles then, just enough to soften her expression. "Least not yet. And I bet you can figure something out."

He leans closer, ducks his head down to taste her throat, but the elevator dings and the door open behind him. Zoe steps around him, walks out into the hallway, and all he can do is follow her. She swipes her card in a door and enters and he comes in behind her, flipping the latch closed with one hand as she pulls off her top and steps out of her shoes. Her back is slim but strong, tapering down to a damn tiny waist he wants to touch. As he walks closer, she turns around giving him a view of her breasts, small and pert and real, pink-brown nipples he wants to taste.

He presses a kiss against her open lips, another against her throat, and her hands on his shoulders guide him forward as she steps backward toward the bed. Her breasts taste of clean, salty sweat, her nipples harden under his tongue, and her skirt slips down to the floor as soon as he flicks open the button. He pulls away, needing a breath that's not full of her heady scent, and sees her standing there in just her panties, bright red, some kind of little shorts clinging to the swell of her hips. He tucks his index fingers under the waistband and looks up to her for permission, for something. She nods, and he pulls them down, feeling the cotton damp against his palm.

When she sits down, he kneels between her spread thighs. When he tastes her, she tilts her hips up to his face. When he slips his tongue between her folds, she lays her hands lightly over the back of his head, her fingers twining through his curls. When the muscles in her stomach shake and shudder under his hands, her hips twitching up from the bed, her grip on his hair tightens, tiny slivers of pain that make his cock harder, his pants tighter. He licks her through it, smoothing his fingers over the sweat on her stomach, and resists the urge to open his fly and just rub against the side of the bed with the smell of her in his nose and her taste in his mouth.

He sinks back onto the floor instead, resting his head against her thigh, breathing, listening to her breathe. He has to move when she does, standing as she curls up to sit on the bed. Her eyes are softer, her body languid, but she still has steel in her voice when she tells Jeff to get undressed. He thinks that's the best idea he's heard all night, so he strips down fast--shirt over his head, pants yanked down to the floor.

He looks down at himself for a second, acutely conscious of the fact that he's not as sculpted as she is, that there's some gray in places he really wishes there weren't.

"Would you get your handsome ass over here?"

_Fuck it_, he thinks. He steps out of his boxers and looks up to see her lounging on her side, propped up on one elbow. He kneels on the bed, his knees issuing a faint protest at the mistreatment after being on the floor, and she sits up, pushing him back to lean against the headboard, his legs sprawled open in front of him. She crawls up, her hair brushing against his thighs, making his skin pull up into goosebumps, his cock harder, bobbing up between his stomach and thighs.

She smoothes a condom down over him, and he arches his back at the wave of sensation, the press of her hand around him. Her mouth on his cock is warm and slick, and he wants to close his eyes but then he would lose the sight of her--long back curving up to her ass, round and ripe, moving in time with the slide of her lips and tongue against him. Her hands are firm on his hips, her thumbs slipping along the creases between belly and thigh. He wants to thrust up against her, but she has all of the leverage, all of the power.

She licks him slow like she has all of the time in the world, too, holding Jeff there in the space between breaths, his hands gripping the headboard on either side of him, his whole body trembling until she swallows him deeper. Just for a second, the head of his cock is clenched there in the back of her throat, and he comes, his hips shaking in her hands, his breaths flooding his chest in heavy gusts, his sweat-slick palms falling away from the rungs of the headboard and landing on her shoulders.

He tugs with the little strength he has left, and she sits up, meets him for a kiss that's slow and deep, trading breath as their tongues slip against each other. She slides down then, rests her head against Jeff's chest. Jeff wraps his arms around her, feels the lines of muscle and bone, fragile and strong at the same time. Her breaths puff out slow and even against his skin, and he lets his eyes close, lets his head tip back, lets go.


End file.
